


i'm better at hello

by withkissesfour



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Episode: s06e05 The Premiere, Kissing Prompts, M/M, Tumblr Prompts, Wisdom Teeth, but it's okay coz they love each other, sometimes early mornings are hard, sometimes marriage is hard, sometimes people fart, sometimes you have to go to the dentist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withkissesfour/pseuds/withkissesfour
Summary: “Let’s get out of here”, Patrick hears, mumbled against his lips, then he feels David’s arms snake around his shoulders, feels him sigh against his mouth, and Patrick melts into the kiss. It’s tender and intense and familiar, and teasing and joyful in a way that is specifically them, tongues and teeth and grins knocking against each other, because if you can’t have fun with the person you’ve chosen to make out with for the rest of your life, what’s the fucking point?Three goodbyes, and a hello.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 16
Kudos: 187





	i'm better at hello

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JessX2231](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessX2231/gifts).



> I was prompted any of the following by JessX2231 over on tumblr, so I naturally decided to do all of them:
> 
> \- Small kisses littered across the other’s face.  
> \- A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.  
> \- A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.  
> \- One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

_goodbye._

David is awake before him.

They haven’t been sleeping together for long. They’ve probably _slept_ together more than they’ve slept together, if you catch his drift, their time alone always too truncated to allow for much rest. It’s been a couple of weeks since the first night at Stevie’s, and they’ve only spent two or three nights together, but Patrick already knows enough to know that David being awake before him is a feat. But there he is. There he is, his chest pressed against Patrick’s, his arms flung over Patrick’s shoulders.

Patrick can hear paper rustling behind him, can feel David’s muscles strain in his forearm as he turns the page on his book. Whatever it is, it’s heavy, he can feel the weight of it between his shoulder blades where David has been resting it. He wonders how long he’s been awake for. Patrick usually wakes up before his alarm, and he’s already become accustomed to sneaking out on David, scribbling a note for him in the dark, seeing him much later at the store, or after, on his days off. 

“It’s your day off.”

“And good morning to you,” David says from above him, and Patrick feels the book bounce against the mattress as he lifts himself up. Sleep weighs heavy on the surprise in his own voice, but not on David’s, so he must have been up for a while, and Patrick is suddenly relieved he’s not awake enough to be too embarrassed. There’s an inkling of it, at least, a blush that David must be able to see crawling up Patrick’s neck to where his chin is propped just below David’s collarbone. They’re just - they’re so _new_ to each other, to _all_ of each other, to waking up slow and naked, and Patrick is worried, or would be, if he were more awake, that he’s made a fool of himself.

He’d be worried that he’s trapped David here, unthinking, with their chests pressed together and their legs tangled with the sheets. He’d be concerned he woke David up, somehow. He’d be concerned he snores. He’d be worried this isn’t something David wants, this sort of slow, this sort of morning, early and Wednesday, when Patrick can’t manage the kind of back-and-forth they’ve tied around their relationship, when he can’t manage to string a sentence together at all. 

“Did I snore?” is all he manages, looking up at David, who is rubbing at a knot in Patrick’s shoulder with one hand, and searching for his bookmark with the other. He feels David’s chest shake as he chuckles.

“No”, he promises, running a hand through Patrick’s hair. It’s short enough Patrick can feel David’s nails against his scalp, tracing the circle of his crown where a few trimmed curls begin. David doesn’t seem to mind this kind of morning. “You did fart though.”

There’s no mistaking Patrick’s blush now, his cheeks warm against David’s skin where he buries his face. 

“I did not.”

“I mean, sure.”

“I have _never_ farted,” he starts, muffled and earnest, his nose tickled by the fine, dark hair on David’s chest, David’s fingers at the nape of his neck. “In my _life.”_

“A medical miracle,” David laughs, and it rumbles through their bodies, harmonises with the alarm singing from his bedside table. Patrick wants to wake up like this every morning. He peels himself away to reach for the snooze on his phone, almost knocks a mug full of coffee onto the carpet. It’s lukewarm, and he cranes his neck across the bed to see an empty mug on David’s side. 

“You got up early,” he says, and the thought niggles in the back of his head, that maybe his farts woke David. “Did you sleep badly?”

“No I just - ” David starts, then furrows his brow, like he’s trying to figure out the early start himself. “I slept good.”

His mouth splits into a smile then, and he watches as Patrick crawls back towards him. Patrick feels, selfishly, like a miracle cure, like a sex god and sleep wizard all rolled into one. The closer he gets, the more rested David looks, his eyes bright and shoulders unwound. He always looks beautiful, but he looks so _happy_ right now, so happy that Patrick wants to close the blinds, make the tent into a sheet above their heads, force the sun from the sky and let David light the room up instead. 

He settles for kissing him, his hands either side of David’s head on the pillow. It’s quick, and unexpectedly chaste, naked as they are, their lips pressed together just long enough for Patrick to taste the blend of beans Ray’s decided to try roasting in the kitchen.

“Mm, coffee.”

“Mm, morning breath.”

David’s smirk is close, and his eyes are bright, and Patrick’s voice wobbles with laughter as he leans close again, brushes his lips over David’s.

“I have _never_ had morning breath, in my _life,”_ he breathes, then swallows David’s reply in a messy, heated kiss, and is definitely late for work.

*

_goodbye._

“Are we sure about her?”

“I’m sure she’s done this a million times,” Patrick says, because he’s not sure what else to say, because David is eyeing the door like the dentist is going to kick it down, and loom over them with a needle and drill with a toothy grin. She seemed nice.

“I’m sure,” David echoes, his tone reaching for skeptical and landing on wobbly. His gaze travels across the room and to the television tacked to the ceiling, the credits of a Zelwegger movie rolling. 

Earlier, as they’d stepped out of Stevie’s car and watched her pull away, David had leaned close, told Patrick he had no wisdom teeth, himself, not anywhere in his head, so this _was all a bit new for him._ Patrick was sure he’d held onto this until they were alone, to avoid endless barbs from Stevie, so he’d just put an arm around David’s waist, promised not to make any _wise_ cracks.

It’s nice, in a sickness and health sort of way, that he’s so worried for Patrick, and nice that he’s here, and nice that he’ll be here later, to take care of him, to get him home. It’s also, in a way, _deeply_ annoying. 

Patrick wishes there were more forms for him to sign, that there was something for David to do so he wasn’t sitting on the tall stool besides the dentist’s chair looking like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin with nerves. Patrick’s a little nervous too, and the more he thinks about his teeth the more they hurt, so he tries to preoccupy himself with the fray in the rip of David’s white jeans, and the way David fidgets with the jewelry perched at the top of his ring finger. 

“What are you gonna do while I’m under?” he asks, and David pats a thick Dostoevsky sticking out of the top of his bag. Patrick is doubtful he won’t just bounce off the walls of the waiting room instead, but he watches as David runs his thumb along the top of the book. “You’re stroking the Russian.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re frowning,” Patrick says. 

David gives him a tight smile, pressing a finger between his brow and running it up the middle of his forehead to try and smooth the crinkles. They disappear briefly, then return with renewed depth, and Patrick holds a hand out towards him. 

“Come here.”

The metal of his rings are cool against Patrick’s fingers as he pulls him closer, the wheels of David’s chair moving along the linoleum until his knees bump Patrick’s arm. He keeps a hold of David’s hand, uses it to lift himself up and bring David closer, so he can press his mouth to the lines that have collected above his nose. Patrick can feel the tension beneath his lips, can feel a strand of David’s fringe break rank and brush against his cheek. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” Patrick mutters, bumping the tip of his nose against the bridge of David’s, and the door slides open so quietly behind them that neither man notices until the dentist clears her throat. 

“Good to go?” she asks. She’s not brandishing any tools of torture, but she’s accompanied by a nurse, and it’s clear that it’s David’s time to leave. He slides from the dentist chair, and Patrick watches him smooth his hair back into shape, only for it to fall loose again as he bends to collect his things. A stray curl still bounces against his forehead when he buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder. 

“Bye,” he can hear, muffled against his skin, and he tightens his grip around David’s waist, watches the dentist and nurse busy themselves over his shoulder, watches another _Bridget Jones_ begin on the ceiling. They hold each other like that for a moment, close and familiar, pressing the sparks of tension between their chests until they’re all but extinguished.

“I’ll catch you later,” Patrick says, and David pulls away. He looks at him for a moment before he leans forward to press his lips, gentle as can be, to the line of Patrick’s jaw. He kisses by his left ear, by his right, before meeting him in the middle, mumbling against his mouth as he kisses him.

“I’ll catch you later.” 

*

_goodbye._

His car does suck.

He’s ready to admit that after an excruciating ten minutes of trying and failing to start the engine, the vehicle like an icebox on the early mid-winter morning.

He’s ready to throw his hands up in surrender, to throw together a spreadsheet and see what they could afford if they somehow managed to haul this car to a dealer. They’ve had the wedding now, and a honeymoon, and a few months to get used to a mortgage. They’re grown up now, they’re married men, they need a car. 

He’s ready to say all this to David, but he’s already hauled his luggage from the car. He can see him in the rear view mirror, surrounded by his bags on the curb, and Patrick has to run down their long driveway to catch him before the taxi pulls up. 

It’s still dark out, so Patrick can see plumes of white against the cool air as David pushes out a sigh, and he can hear the now familiar sounds of the animals across the road at the farm as they’re given breakfast, the low whinnies from the horses, the frantic cluck of a pen full of chickens, the dog that never shuts up. 

“I’m gonna be late,” David snaps, teeth chattering, eyeing his phone as they load the trunk with his things. It takes a moment to arrange the bags so they fit, a tricky task before coffee, before sunrise, and he can feel David growing more anxious by the second. 

It’s the first time he’s visited Alexis since she moved, and the first time he’s visited New York since he left it, and the weight of his desperation to impress is evident in the drop of his shoulders, clad in his most expensive sweater. 

“You’re not going to be late.”

Patrick barely restrains himself from saying they’ll be cutting it close, getting to the tiny airport before final call, as they pile into the car. He barely restrains himself from snapping back at David, that maybe things would have been smoother if he’d woken up earlier, that maybe he doesn’t need three suit bags and four suitcases, for a _week._ Instead he says nothing. The ride is silent, and Patrick watches the tension knot itself at the nape of David’s neck from his seat behind him. 

They don’t say a word to each other as they race through the airport either, through baggage and security, and through security again, and _again_ , until David’s removed every piece of jewelry and his shoes. Patrick is still holding his engagement rings as they reach the gate, the gold cool against his palm while he watches David trip over his untied boots trying to reach the flight attendant, ticket thrust out towards her. 

The airport is pretty basic, a flight of stairs leading down to the tarmac, and a small plane a few hundred metres away. Patrick can see a few people boarding now, can hear the crackle of the old speakers as the attendant calls final boarding calmly into the microphone as she checks David in. There’s something about her demeanour that reminds Patrick of Stevie, composed in a way that might strike someone as bored, perceptive in a fashion that comes off as judgmental, unflappable in the face of David’s flapping. The resemblance must occur to David too, because Patrick can see him loosen a little, unscrewing the parts of his body that had been screwed tight since he woke up. 

“It’s not gonna leave without you,” the attendant says, tipping her head towards the stairs. 

“Thanks, thank you.”

He drops his carry on bag then, next to her feet, and spins back towards Patrick. David is in his arms before he knows it, the force of the hug knocking the apology, that has sat on the tip of Patrick’s tongue since they left home, from his mouth.

“ ‘m sorry,” he hears returned, muffled into his shoulder. He pulls away, collecting David’s hands in his.

Patrick makes his own pattern for the rings he slides onto David’s fingers, the way he has before, the way he did for the first time, at the top of a mountain, at the head of a valley, their hands trembling, their mouths overflowing with laughter. David is quiet now, as he watches Patrick, and quiet when Patrick finally meets his gaze. He’s so quiet Patrick has to lean forward to hear him say, breathless and close, 

“Kiss me.”

And Patrick does.

*

_hello._

A week later, he’s in New York City too. 

He’s been in big cities before. He navigated the mean streets of Montreal when he went away to college, did his best to shake his small town past only to run straight to another. He’s visited busy places before, but this is something else entirely, and after the snail pace of Schitt’s Creek he finds it hard not to be a little intimidated. He tries to imagine David in his place, attempting to hail a cab from the bottom of Alexis’ apartment block as the rain beats steadily on her umbrella. 

His plane had been delayed, sitting on the tarmac for longer than he would have liked while they had tried to find a pilot for the afternoon. By the time he’d reached the city, David had been halfway across it, sending him directions to a party in Williamsburgh once he’d dropped his luggage. 

He tries to picture David, looking beautiful and expensive and untouchable when he’d stood on the same sidewalk earlier that evening. He doesn’t imagine their small town time would have touched his husband in the same way it had him, imagines David is in his element instead, confident in a way that seems incongruous back home, and expected here. He would have been on his way by now, but here Patrick is, still, narrowly avoiding attacks of water brought up from the gutter by passing cars. 

“It takes some getting used to,” Alexis shouts as she races under the protection of his umbrella. 

She’d been watching him struggle then, from her window, and he’s grateful to see her, wisps of wet hair poking out from underneath the hood of a raincoat, and a kind, bright smile directed at him as she flings her arm high into the air, craning her neck down the street. There’s a warmth about her that reminds him of her brother, like they both decided one day to crack themselves open and let years of love loose on the people they care about the most, and it makes him feel like he’s won some sort of prize, joining their family. Alexis squeezes his arm now, nods towards the taxi that’s appeared in front of them.

“Have him home by ten,” she yells with a grin through the sheet of rain between them, and he watches her race inside as the car pulls into the street.

From what he’s heard of this party from the both of them, it won’t be that kind of night. David ran into these people his second weekend in the city at a gallery, at _their_ gallery, on the opening night of some wildly adventurous, deeply political, emotionally tortured exhibition he explained in detail. Patrick doesn’t remember all the artistic nuances, but he does remember that David said he was greeted like an old friend, that he was whisked away to cocktails, and treated to a private tour, and invited to an early Christmas party the next weekend. He does remember that they didn’t sound like bed-by-nine-thirty-people.

Patrick also remembers that these people were invited to the wedding, two in a group of select New York friends. He remembers David raked their budget over the coals for these people. He remembers they didn’t come.

He’s wondering whether it would be impolite to bring this up with tonight’s hosts when he pulls up outside the venue. It’s a second gallery, tall ceilings and large windows and careful lighting. There’s a piano near the front, taken by guests attempting carols, and the doors are spilling over with wildly glamorous people, too rich to feel the stinging cold of the night as they laugh at each other in monochrome couture.

If David wasn’t standing by himself, Patrick would have lost him in the crowd. He looks just like them, all sharp edges and dark accents and pants that skim his ankle, except that he looks effortless where they do not. He looks beautiful. He looks _miserable._

He’s leaning against an empty section of the brick wall at the side of the party, his gaze skimming the crowd. When his eyes land on Patrick, picking his way past people towards David he looks, for a second, like he doesn’t recognise him. He watches Patrick curiously, like he’s regressed to this big city rich kid, who could never have dreamt up someone so parochial to spend the rest of his life with. 

Patrick begins to feel even more out of place at this party, but then David is pushing himself off the wall and striding toward him, his expression spilling over with relief. It occurs to Patrick, as they meet in the middle of the crowd, that in fact, David had never dreamt up someone who would _love_ him. Someone who would marry him. Someone who would show up to a party for him. 

“Hi,” David says, so softly it cuts beneath the loud rhythm of the party around them, hits Patrick square in the chest. _God_ , he missed him. 

They’re bumped closer together by someone jostling behind Patrick, and he steadies himself on the sleeve of David’s suit, heavy fabric and a fine pattern beneath his palm. 

“You look good.” 

“ _You_ look good” he says, tugging at Patrick’s dinner jacket before he grips the lapels and pulls him closer, leaning forward to press a gentle, lingering kiss to Patrick’s mouth. They only part when the crowd starts to move towards the open doors, coaxed inside by their hosts, perched upon a stage and tapping at their microphones. 

“Do you wanna do this?” David asks, gesturing behind him. He doesn’t move, though, just grips Patrick tight, knocks the tips of their shoes against each other. 

“Do you want to?” 

Patrick is happy either way. He’ll follow David into this party if that’s what he wants, listen to long speeches, drink free champagne, make nice to people he doesn’t know. He’d follow David to the ends of the earth, if that’s what he wanted. 

He knows that David knows that, and he also knows that David is also still the twenty-something kid in this city by himself, throwing money at his friends so they’ll stick around. There will always be a part of him _desperate_ to impress them, and he wants David to know that it’s okay, that _he’s_ okay, that he can’t be expected to cure himself in one night of an insecurity that has had its claws in him for a decade. 

He wants to tell him all of this, but he doesn’t get a chance. David doesn’t give him a chance, dragging him close so their lips crash together again, before he can even form a sentence. 

“Let’s get out of here”, Patrick hears, mumbled against his lips, then he feels David’s arms snake around his shoulders, feels him sigh against his mouth, and Patrick melts into the kiss. It’s tender and intense and familiar, and teasing and joyful in a way that is specifically _them_ , tongues and teeth and grins knocking against each other, because if you can’t have fun with the person you’ve chosen to make out with the rest of your life, what’s the fucking point?

Patrick is vaguely aware they’re alone out here now. He thinks they’d make a pretty picture, wrapped up in each other on the sidewalk in their Sunday best, just as it’s starting to rain again. David pulls away as he feels the first few droplets land on his hair, offers him a brilliant smile.

“Thank you,” he says, as Patrick stretches out Alexis’ umbrella above their heads. He’s so earnest Patrick wants to cry, wants to kiss him, wants to marry him all over again. 

Instead he brushes away a track of rain making its way down David’s forehead and leans forward, conspiratorial, so the rest of the party doesn’t want to join. 

“Pizza?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Out of Africa", the best Streep film.


End file.
